Why is it,
That emptiness begets itself?
Silence echoes,
without a sound.
As the void grows.
When I write,
It is written.
But on those days I don’t
Nothing is read.
Why is it so?
Why is it,
That emptiness begets itself?
Silence echoes,
without a sound.
As the void grows.
When I write,
It is written.
But on those days I don’t
Nothing is read.
Why is it so?